


Sailing Out to No One But You

by Rose Golden (geekitout)



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: An AU in which my favorite character fucking LIVED dammit, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Depression, Dunkirk Evacuation, Gibson (Dunkirk) Deserves Better, Gibson (Dunkirk) Lives, Gibson's Real Name Is Philippe Hugo Guillet, Gibson/Philippe will get most of the happy ending he deserves, Heavy Angst, I Promise It Gets Happier, I have a thing for softboy Alex, I have so many plot bunnies for this fandom because the characters are blank slates, I really just needed to fulfill my headcanon for softboy!Alex being defensive of his French bby, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Loneliness, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Dunkirk Evacuation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, Semi-historically accurate, World War II, except more gay than if he had canonically lived but I mean, maybe Alex/Gibson/Tommy at some point but idk, oh well, protective Alex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-12-31 05:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekitout/pseuds/Rose%20Golden
Summary: Alex goes back for Gibson.**Please read**This fic is pretty dark. A lot of introspection from a depressed character who is facing many challenges. It will get better but there are many hurdles to be jumped before then. If you're not in a good place mentally, I advise you not to read it (and please take care of yourself; I love you - sleep, drink lots of water, and all that good stuff).





	1. "You came back for me."

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the fic comes from the song "Men Amongst Mountains" by The Revivalists.
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own the characters Alex, Gibson/Philippe, or Tommy. I'm not affiliated the cast, crew, or anyone else associated with the making of Dunkirk.

_“Gibson! Leave it!”_ Alex waded to the stairs as he yelled. His mind was filled with nothing but the sound of rushing water and the echoes of his own command – _leave it, leave it_. He wrapped his hands around the top of the stairs to pull himself up but something stopped him. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right, tried telling himself _of course it isn’t right, the fucking boat is sinking_ but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease at the thought. He turned to gaze back, expecting the French solider to be on his heels and ready to push him out into the open water they were quickly being absorbed in. His breath hitched when he realized no one was there and a wave of dread hit him hard. His mind still chanted, cruelly taunting him – _leave it, leave it_ – and he shook his head.

“Shit,” he muttered. His eyes darted back and forth across the surface of the rising water, trying to locate the other solider but to no avail. The water was too dark. Alex breathed out one last string of obscenities before diving under. He guessed he had about thirty seconds total to locate Gibson, get him out of whatever he was hung in, and get them both out before they drowned. That is, assuming Gibson hadn’t already drowned.

Alex did his best to ignore the stinging in his eyes as he kept them open, looking for any sign of another body. A flash of silver caught his attention – a stolen dog tag – before the rest of Gibson’s body came into focus. He was desperately trying to reach for Alex, hands outstretched and flailing as he tried to propel himself forward. Alex swam nearer and grabbed one flailing hand, squeezing it to reassure Gibson that he wasn’t going to leave him. Almost as quickly as he had grabbed the hand, he let go of it and swam down to see what the other man was hung on. He mentally cursed as his fingers made contact with the metal chains wrapped around one leg. He was going to get them both killed but he was too invested now, he knew, to leave Gibson behind. Chest aching from a dwindling supply of oxygen, he maneuvered the chain with frustrated movements until finally, it gave way, freeing the trapped soldier. Alex felt a hand grab his arm before he was being pulled. At this point, the water was pitch black and the suction from the sinking boat was growing ever stronger. Both soldiers pushed as hard as they could against the pressure weighing down on them until Gibson’s free hand made contact with the stairs. He used the hand that was tightly wrapped around Alex’s arm to pull Alex in front of him and their bodies pressed close together as they used the last of their energy to pull themselves up. Both let out loud gasps in between coughs as soon as the broke the surface, staying put for a second before Alex began treading towards the civilian boat nearby. Gibson trailed close behind.

The stretch between boats felt like it would never end. Both soldiers’ limbs felt heavy, chests constricted and still not able to capture enough oxygen. Adrenaline propelled them through oil and water until finally, they were being pulled to safety. Gibson stayed curled on the deck of the boat for a moment. His body was trembling violently and he was focused on nothing but breathing. A hand extended itself in front of his face and he glanced up, blue eyes connecting with green.

“You came back for me,” he whispered in disbelief before taking the outstretched hand. Alex didn’t respond, just pulled Gibson to his unsteady feet, and the French soldier nodded in thanks before dropping his gaze back to the deck. Alex’s hand left his only to wrap around his shoulders and guide him down below.

After carefully moving the lifeless body of a young boy out of the way, Alex pulled Gibson to a space just big enough to fit the two of them. He could feel someone watching him and he glanced up. His body tensed when he made eye contact with the soldier from the previous boat, the one who had initially pointed the rifle in Gibson’s face. The soldier shot his eyes towards Gibson and then narrowed them before turning back to meet Alex’s gaze. It was a look that said _“What the fuck is he doing here?”_ just as plainly as if the words had been shouted aloud.

“Got a problem?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, I do, actually,” the other soldier spat back. Alex felt Gibson shrink beside him and he shifted so he was crouching defensively in front of the Frenchman.

“Go on, then,” Alex said lowly. “You’re gonna take it up with me.”

Before anything else could be said between the two, another soldier chimed in. “Ay, pipe down, will ya? We don’t need any problems ‘ere. Leave it be or I’mma throw all three of ya off m’self.” The soldier from the previous boat scowled but said nothing else. He shifted so that his back was turned away from Alex and Gibson. Alex didn’t move back to his spot next to his comrade until he knew for sure he was safe.

He hadn’t even noticed Tommy’s absence until the dark-haired soldier made his way down the steps several minutes later. Tommy’s eyes flashed with relief when they landed on the other two. He nodded when he made eye contact with Alex before finding a space for himself. Alex nodded in return but couldn’t help the bitter taste he had in his mouth upon the realization that Tommy hadn’t even turned back to see if Gibson had made it out alive. The one man that had saved them, as Tommy was quick to throw in Alex’s face before, the one man that Tommy hadn’t separated himself from for a single moment since they had found each other – he was just going to leave him to drown? And who saved him? The one man who had tried to have the French soldier killed in merciless sacrifice. Alex clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall behind him. _Doesn’t matter_, he told himself. _You’re all safe now. It doesn’t matter._ He drifted off to sleep with his left side pressed tightly against the right side of Gibson’s body.

\--

Alex hovered close to Gibson as the two of them waited in line to get on the train home. Tommy was a couple of feet behind. He didn’t question Alex’s abrupt change in how he treated Gibson, much to Alex’s surprise, but he was watching the pair with curiosity. When Alex would catch him staring, he would return the look with challenging eyes. Tommy kept his silence.

Once on board, the three found an unoccupied cabin to share. Alex plopped against the window on one side and Tommy on the other. Gibson stood awkwardly for a moment between the two before carefully sitting next to Alex. Just as the train was rocking him into unconsciousness, he heard a soft “_Hey!_” He opened his eyes but made no other move to acknowledge the sound until Alex continued.

“What’s your real name?” He pointed at the dog tag around his own neck.

The French soldier sighed and grew anxious as he mulled the question over in his mind. He was reluctant to strip himself of this façade. Could he really trust this man after he had threatened him? Was he going to turn on him again? Alex couldn’t use his name as a weapon but it was one more detail that he could shove in the Frenchman’s face like the barrel of the gun he had pointed at him before. Gibson could no longer shield him from cruelty. He grit his teeth at the idea of hearing his own name spat in his face with the same venom as _bloody frog_ had been hurled at him. The name itself may not be able to cause physical pain, he thought, but it would have felt like shrapnel embedding itself in his skin nonetheless. _Gibson_ he could separate from himself. _Gibson_ could be dropped without stripping away an entire life along with it. _Gibson_ was a mold, something he could shape and twist and morph into whatever he needed to survive. His name, though – that familiar string of letters that gave him his identity, had memories attached to it, had a family, had a home – that was something to be kept safe and handled with care. Something to be packed away neatly in a box labeled _fragile_. But in the end, Alex had saved his life and being dishonest would have been a great insult.

The Frenchman let out a resigned sigh and despite feeling like he was splitting his chest open and revealing a vulnerable piece of himself, he whispered his name. _Philippe_. “And I speak English just fine,” he added, careful to keep his tone light so as not to come across as rude. He didn’t want Alex or Tommy worrying about how to phrase something or having to rely heavily on body language to communicate with someone they perceived as being ignorant of their mother tongue. Philippe was fluent in English, he just didn’t speak much because he knew his accent would reveal him for he was – a traitor to his own country and a fraud to his allies. _Should’ve known better_, he had thought to himself once he had been exposed. _Should’ve thought it through._

Alex gave a small smile and nodded before echoing his name, and then he fell asleep. Philippe was soon to follow.

\--

When the train finally came to its final stop, Philippe’s stomach was in knots. He hadn’t planned this far ahead. He hadn’t seen himself ever escaping the beach, much less wandering the streets of England. His face must have given him away because Alex placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. His hand felt like an anchor, keeping Philippe grounded and in the present. Despite his mind reeling with chaotic scenarios, the contact was a reminder that he was still safe.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Alex asked him, a hint of concern tainting his otherwise calm voice. Philippe shook his head slowly, his eyes glued to the floor of the cabin.

“Stay with me?”

Philippe turned to him then and blinked, caught off guard. Standing behind Alex, Tommy’s familiar curious expression morphed into shock.

“Well, I have an extra room…” Alex trailed off, suddenly hyperaware of the two pairs of eyes on him.

After several painful seconds, Philippe nodded. “Yes, thank you.”


	2. Stranger in a Strange Land

_14 June, 1940_

_Betty,_

_I’ve been away for a full week now. Miss me yet? I miss home. Seems a bit weird – I really wasn’t there long enough to miss it but I do. I miss civilian clothes and real meals but I think I miss my bed most of all._

_Things aren’t so bad here. Nothing like France – in those last few days, at least. More like the earlier days in France where things were calm and it didn’t even feel like a war. Mostly, we’ve just been preparing for possible attacks but not a whole lot is actually happening. Not here. I don’t know why we’re here when there are other areas that need us more. It’s a waste, if you ask me._

_I ran into Tommy – quite literally ran into him. Almost knocked him out because neither of us was paying attention. He wasn’t very friendly, to be honest. I think he’s mad at me but I can’t tell if it’s from Dunkirk or if I’ve done something else since then. We haven’t seen each other since we left the train station so I don’t know how I could have done anything since then. Maybe he just doesn’t like me._

_I hope you are doing well and aren’t too lonely. I’m sorry I had to leave you. I don’t know when we will return but I look forward to that day._

_Write soon, yeah?_  
_Alex_  


_16 June, 1940_

_Alex,_

_It sure feels like more than a week. Of course, by the time you get this letter it will have been closer to two or maybe three. I don’t know what to say about Tommy. He was always quiet and a bit moody. It may not have anything to do with you, you don’t know. Just give him space, maybe he will come around – if you see him again, that is. I know how these things go._

_I am lonely but I am also much more than that. I wish I could be there with you. You have no idea. I feel worthless here, knowing that you are fighting and I sit comfortably in a home, safe and away from the war. This is killing me, Alex. I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror._

_War is unpredictable. I know you are restless but this may not last so just enjoy the calm for now. At any point, things may change and you will be wishing to be bored again._

_Stay vigilant. Your bed awaits your safe return._  
_Betty-Frances_  


A small, sad smile crept across Philippe’s face as he sealed his letter. Alex had been ordered back into service only two days after returning home, leaving Philippe to live alone in a foreign land. Betty-Frances Thompson had been Alex’s idea. Philippe hadn’t thought about how odd it would be for two unrelated men to be writing to each other in the midst of a war, one away for battle and one obviously being kept away from combat. It was too dangerous. Philippe knew what he was and as much as Alex hated using the word, he himself had to say it out loud for it and all of its implications to really sink in – Philippe was a deserter, a traitor to his homeland. He would be arrested if he were found and Alex would have been arrested for harboring him. Before he left, Alex demanded that Philippe never leave the house. No one could see him but even more importantly, no one could hear him speak.

Philippe had briefly thought about lying and going back with the French army when they separated the British and French troops at Dover. He had escaped Dunkirk with thousands of other French troops. No one had to know that he was a deserter. Only a handful of British soldiers knew, but what would be the odds that one of them would squeal? What would be the odds that Gibson’s body would have been uncovered on the beach, that the soldier buried in a French uniform with a French name would have been properly identified as a British soldier whose identity had been stolen from his corpse? What if, in that same scenario, they traced the name on the dog tags back to their owner, who had rejoined the same army he had fled like a coward? What would be his fate then? Would he be tried as a deserter or would they let him fight because they need all the able bodies they could get, watching his every move so he couldn’t weasel his way out of war again? And none of these fears, as unrealistic as they were, even touched the most glaring threat of all - Philippe had buried his uniform with Gibson's body. He was wearing a British uniform. How would he have explained that to his officers?

He chose not to risk it but it was a battle he fought with himself every day. He couldn’t stop the thoughts ricocheting in his mind, calling him a coward, a selfish traitor. He didn’t deserve to fight for his country. He didn’t deserve to live. He should have died on that beach or on that ship Alex rescued him from. The only thing preventing him from caving into the guilt and taking his own life was the thought of how devastated Alex would be when he returned home to find his body. Alex had seen enough death; he didn’t need to see it in his own home. Alex was the last thread that Philippe clung to. They had decided before his deployment to write letters as often as possible. Alex needed to know that Philippe had not been discovered and Philippe needed reassurance that Alex was still alive. No one would know that Betty-Frances was not a lover eagerly waiting the safe return of her soldier.

Philippe often felt detached from this world, like he was a ghost just floating among the living. Who was he anymore? He had buried his name on the beach in June. He had uncovered it on the train only to have it buried again in East London under the floorboards of Alex’s kitchen. In writing, he was Betty-Frances Thompson, a lovesick sweetheart whose only desire was to be by her lover’s side again. In person, he had crafted Anthony Douglas, a working man whose mother is French and whose father is Welsh. Philippe worked tirelessly every day to tone his accent down so that the French was soft enough to pass as simply a mother’s lifelong influence. He listened to the radio for hours and tried to mimic the voices he heard. He couldn’t get a job or speak to anyone outside of the house until he was successful at masking his identity. In the meantime, he pretended to be cold, distant, and hard of hearing at the market, his only outing. Alex’s neighbors didn’t speak to him and he often feared they might be on to who he really is but Alex scolded him when he had expressed this fear. How could they know? If anything, they might suspect he was a mute but a French deserter? Ridiculous. Still, Philippe couldn’t shake the paranoia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this chapter because in the beginning of it, I had originally written that Alex got called back into service a couple of weeks after returning from Dunkirk. I know this is a fanfic but that was driving me nuts, seeing as he didn't appear to be injured and had no reason to be home that long. Most soldiers went immediately back to war - as in, they never got to go home and in fact, the British army tried their best to make sure the soldiers were nowhere near their hometown when they brought them back to England because they knew they'd have a hell of a time getting their morale back up if they got a taste of home. I can write essays on this topic alone so I'll stop but yeah.
> 
> This fic isn't 100% accurate for many, many reasons but this one was too glaringly obvious of a mistake. There are still issues with the timeline in the beginning because of this, and the fact that the British officers watched the soldiers like hawks on the trains and how tf Philippe would have gotten by them is a mystery to me because they did roll calls at the stations, so we'll say it was magic (or that he's just a clever boy) but hopefully all of this can be overlooked :)


	3. Then Lightning Struck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek, I'm sorry this took so long! I got writer's block. This isn't exactly what I wanted the third chapter to be but it'll have to do. :)

_Chaos._

That was the word Philippe had heard on the radio earlier in the day before he turned it off and curled up on the floor of Alex’s bedroom closet. Knees up, hands clasped over his ears, and eyes closed as he sat, rocking back and forth in the darkness while the floor rumbled beneath him. Despite covering his ears, he could still hear a sound that he had hoped he would never hear again. The Germans were bombing London. Philippe could feel every impact deep in his bones, every nightmare he had had since June suddenly prophetic in nature and unfolding before him. _This_, he thought, _is my punishment for running away from war. War has come back for me._

When the first bomb hit nearby, Philippe thought his mind was playing tricks on him, as it had been doing all summer. He would see men crouched behind chairs, their rifles resting on furniture and shooting at enemies Philippe could not see. He could hear them shouting orders and firing their weapons, and sometimes he swore he could smell the oil burning on Dunkirk beach and feel the sand on his skin. But this time when the earth shook beneath his feet, he was not dreaming. He was not stuck in a memory, and every blast rattled him to his core. It was the first time in months that his mind had gone completely blank. He could focus on nothing – not even his own choking sobs and labored breathing – but the explosions in the distance.

Thirty agonizing minutes passed and the earth settled beneath his body. The noise stopped and the only sound Philippe could hear was his erratic breathing. His heart was beating so fast he thought it might give out, and his whole body shook as violently as the windows in the house had during the raid. He was not an overly religious man but tonight, he knelt on the floor and cried to a god he often doubted, thanking them for another night of survival. He would not sleep for two days.

\--

Alex was annoyed. It had been almost ten hours since he had eaten anything other than a square of chocolate and his patience was wearing thin. The last thing he wanted to hear was news about a part of the war he was not fighting, unless that news brought with it an order for him to move elsewhere. He tuned out the soldier reading aloud and tried to focus on the letter he was writing.

_8 September 1940_

_Betty,_

_Sorry to hear that you’re still having nightmares. I wish I knew of a remedy you could try. If you find one, let me know, will you?_

_I know it’s still too early to think about this but I really hope we get to come home for Christmas. So far, I haven’t heard any plans but my desire to come home for the holidays is about the only thing keeping me going right now. That, and—_

“…bombed East London around 5:30 PM…”

Alex stiffened and his head snapped up. “What?” he asked a little more sharply than he had intended. The solider stopped talking and looked up from the paper.

“For fuck’s sake, Alex – I’m not repeating the whole fucking article just because you were writing love letters,” the solider said irritably.

Alex ignored him. “Did you say the Germans bombed East London?”

“Yes,” the soldier snapped back. Despite the lack of food on his stomach, Alex felt like he was going to be sick. He looked back at the letter he had started to Philippe and ran his thumb over his pseudonym etched onto the page.

The soldier’s face softened when he saw the color drain out of Alex’s face. “Your lady live there?” he asked softly. Alex nodded, too stunned to be embarrassed by the lie and the implication he had unintentionally made about him and Philippe. “Sorry, mate. I hope she’s alright.” Alex didn’t respond. It would be days, if not weeks, before he would get a letter from Philippe if he was still alive. His chest ached at the thought of _if_ and then ached more when he realized that no one would know to write to him if Philippe had been killed. No one knew he was there; no one knew that he had someone waiting for any sign of a heartbeat.

\--

Two weeks went by and Philippe still slept on the bedroom closet floor when he slept at all. He came out long enough to eat or use the restroom but otherwise stayed curled up and numb. He had little food but he wasn’t hungry anyway, and though he wasn’t cold, he shivered constantly. Every creak of the wooden frames and floors, every shriek from the children playing in the road, every bird chirping outside the windows made him jump. So there he stayed, curled in the closet, shivering and wondering when the darkness he felt around him, always present in the form of clouded thoughts and a heaviness in his chest, would fully consume him. It was on one of his worst nights, when he would doze off and dream of a bomb hitting the house – he swore he could feel the heat from the blast and the debris hitting his skin – that he heard a voice coaxing him out of his nightmares. He assumed it was a hallucination, merely part of the nightmares themselves – a ghost from memories past calling out to him. But a hand grabbing at his shoulder jarred him awake and he yelled, fighting at the silhouetted figure before him.

“Wait, wait! Stop, Philippe, it’s okay! You’re alright.” Two arms much stronger than Philippe, who had lost all of his strength from not eating regularly, wrapped tightly around him and held him close. The voice was familiar but Philippe was too disoriented to figure out who it belonged to. Still, he slowly ceased his struggle and just went stiff.

“Alright now, good. You’re okay. What are you doing in the closet, by the way?” One hand that had been holding him still moved to stroke at his hair comfortingly. Philippe blinked and turned to face the shadowy man embracing him.

“A-Alex?” Philippe stammered. His voice was hoarse and weak.

“Yes.”

“Am I…dreaming this? Are you real?”

“I’m really here.”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How are you here? Are you injured? Are you dead? Am I dead?”

“Mate, if this is your idea of heaven, I have some concerns.” Alex laughed quietly and shook his head. “Neither one of us is dead. Although, you look like you’ve got one foot in the grave, if I’m being honest.” His smile faltered when he continued. “I got scared when I didn’t hear from you after the bombing. I asked for a couple of days’ leave to come check on family. They didn’t really want to give it to me but they eventually got tired of my attitude when I stopped sleeping and eating all together so here I am. Three days. Not much time but enough to make sure you’re still breathing.”

Philippe nodded and curled into himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t write. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I can’t do anything. I can’t eat, I can’t think, I—“

“Stop. It’s fine, you’re scared. I get it. Okay? It’s fine. The only thing I don’t really understand is the closet but I can get used to that too.”

Philippe let out a breathy laugh. “I don’t know, I just – it was the only place I could think of to go when the bombing started. I know it’s stupid. It wouldn’t keep me safe if the house were hit but I just…I don’t know. I can’t hear the sirens as loud in here.”

“You feel safe in here and that’s what matters. So, the closet it is.” Alex moved so that he was lying just outside the closet door, as the closet wasn’t big enough for the both of them to sleep. Philippe gave him a puzzled look.

“You’re going to sleep on the floor?” he asked.

“Why not?”

“You have a bed.”

“I do, but my back hurts and the bed sounds too soft right now. Besides, if you feel safe here then I probably will too.” Philippe nodded hesitantly and shifted so that he was lying down again. “By the way,” Alex said while yawning, “there isn’t shit to eat in this house so tomorrow I’m going to the market. Honestly, don’t know how you’re still alive. Bloody miracle.” Philippe smiled. He watched shadows dance on Alex’s face as the other man drifted off to sleep until he himself couldn't help but close his eyes. When, only an hour or two into their slumber, the air raid sirens went off on their usual nightly wailing, Alex startled awake and cursed. Philippe curled in further on himself and felt his chest tighten, but then an arm wrapped around his waist. Alex sleepily pulled him out of the closet and curled around him. They slept the whole night like that - Alex's chest to Philippe's back, Alex's arm draped over Philippe's waist, and one of Philippe's hands wrapped around Alex's wrist - and for the first time since joining the war, Philippe felt a glimmer of hope that everything would be okay. It was the first night with the sirens that he felt like he could breathe, terrified as he still was, and the first night he would sleep outside the closet in weeks.


	4. A note from the writer

Hello, my lovely readers! I hope you’re enjoying what’s been written so far.

I’m currently struggling quite a bit with my mental health, and doing everyday things (like eating and going to work) feels like I’m doing extreme chores right now. It’s taken me a week to write this note.

Writing helps me a lot but when I know people are expecting more, it makes me anxious, and then even one of my favorite and most beneficial hobbies becomes a chore.

So, with that said, I am placing a temporary hold on two of my fics until I feel a bit more stable. I very much want to complete them and plan on doing so...just not right now.

I hope you’re all well and living your best lives! You deserve it.

Wishing you peace,  
-Leigh


End file.
